


Undisclosed Desires

by FreeShavocadoo



Category: Narcos (TV), Narcos: Mexico (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mentions of homophobia and homophobic violence, Some Fluff, Vague explicit material, character insights, total crack pair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-05 11:51:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18828136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreeShavocadoo/pseuds/FreeShavocadoo
Summary: With a gun pressed against the back of his head, on his knees in a shithole cabin he’d paid half a million for, he hears Pacho Herrera’s voice.“People will always judge that which you hold closest to your heart, that which you find impossible to deny. They will use it against you and beat you down with it until there’s only a shell of yourself left.”





	1. Chapter 1

His first impression of Pacho Herrera was a neutral one.

The man, for all of his pristine clothes and sharp stares, was shrewd and cautious in a way that was lacking in most men he surrounded himself with. His eyes seemed to track every movement, scrutinising and ever-watchful, as though he would only deem it appropriate to speak when he had the true measure of a man and not a second before. Miguel Ángel Félix Gallardo could respect a man who prioritised planning over swift and thoughtless action, but what he truly respected was that it was not as cut and dry as either being the intellectual or the executioner. This was a man who was used to being underestimated, overlooked and mocked, and that made him dangerous.

The Cali Cartel was hardly the most traditional cartel in business. Each man represented a marginally different aspect of the criminal underworld, yet it worked in their favour, with a family dynamic that Miguel could respect. The narcotics trade had a way of swiftly showing the weaknesses of men, their greed, lust and hubris. Gilberto Rodriguez Orejuela represented the new age shift of legitimacy, the crime boss turned legitimate businessman, that was becoming rapidly popular as the DEA made their presence more known. Miguel Rodriguez Orejuela was a classic case of younger brother syndrome, not necessarily inadequate, but with over-compensatory behaviour that would inevitably cause his own demise. Chepe Santacruz was the classic cartel leader, unpredictable and aggressive, wily and traditional. It was Pacho Herrera that was the true surprise, however.

Critical eyes watch him over a cocktail glass. “Is there a particular reason you wished to branch into the cocaine business?”

Miguel resists the urge to laugh a little at the present situation, the circumstances still relatively fresh and absurd to him. Sitting across from one of the Cali Cartel Godfathers over drinks, the same Cali Cartel Godfather who has chosen the worlds most obnoxious cocktail and doesn’t seem the slightest bit concerned about it. He wasn’t surprised that out of all the leaders, Pacho was the one to want to speak to him after the meeting in more detail. He seemed to be rather suspicious of outsiders.

“Someone had to-,” Miguel begins, Pacho’s laugh cutting him off.

“Please, don’t insult me.” He puts his glass down, leaning back in his chair to stare scathingly. “Why did you _actually_ make the decision?”

“Someone would’ve. I wanted that someone to be me.” Miguel takes a small swig of his whiskey, appreciating the richness of it, still not quite used to having complete access to the truly expensive stuff, even after all of this time. “I don’t like the thought of something being out of my control.”

“I see. That is a nice notion, I’m sure,” Pacho’s finger swirls around the rim of his glass absent-mindedly, “yet you were a marijuana trafficker. It’s not as if you’re stepping from a smaller shipment to a bigger one, the two are worlds apart.”

“I’m aware.” Miguel replies lazily, glancing around the villa they’re currently sat in, wondering vaguely if this is the type of place he’ll end up favouring later down the line.

“Are you?” Pacho’s voice is smooth as he stands to walk over to his small bar, pouring himself another drink effortlessly. “The level of scrutiny is completely different. Marijuana is nothing to the Americans, regardless of the profit you may have been making. But cocaine? They’ve seen the way it poisons their cities and makes them rife with violence. That alongside the profits and the violence that comes with protecting the operation means you can only hope for a short-term benefit at best.”

“You’ve been in the cocaine business for years.” Miguel lights a cigarette, inhaling deeply and leaning further into his chair. “You’ve just insulated yourself successfully.”

“Is that what you intend to do, Miguel Ángel?” Pacho looks bemused, but still critical. “ _Insulate_ yourself?”

“You don’t think I’ll be able to?” He asks, watching the smoke from his cigarette drift into the air and disappear.

“I’m aware of how you started your business. The type of man who discards of the competition so offhandedly might be impressive for a time, but that kind of behaviour attracts law enforcement.” Pacho sits in front of him once more, crossing his leg neatly as he too, lights a cigarette. “You crave control and abhor the thought of losing it to somebody else, which means you will do your upmost to keep anyone else’s hands from your business. That in itself breeds violence.”

“Violence is in our nature,” Miguel stares at the ceiling, already aware of just how different the sun feels here in Cali compared to Guadalajara, “to pretend otherwise is pointless.”

“Not all violence ends at the barrel of a gun.” Pacho stares, almost inquisitively. “You are an odd one, Miguel Ángel Félix Gallardo.”

“Hm, I could say the same to you.”

 

* * *

 

 

The list of his issues grew larger, as did his wealth and cartel. With that came a steep reduction in his tolerance for bullshit and his patience, finding the company of most of his men unbearable, always being asked too many questions and given too many expectations for a man that was meant to be in control. The shipments from Colombia were increasing, their supply routes expanding, and the demand seemed endless along with the profit. What also seemed endless and inevitable, however, was the DEA’s presence and the movement of jealous and backstabbing men to take his business away from him.

When he gets out of his car, the door is shut for him, something he still sees as relatively novel regardless of how long its been since he’s had to want for anything. It was the small things, the small reminders, that made the difference between a small-time policeman and a big-time narcotics trafficker so apparent. People always eager to hear his opinion but less likely to digest it, people willing to put a drink in his hand to talk with him but unwilling to look him in the eye properly. It was the subtleties that made you aware you were no longer equal.

“Miguel Ángel,” Pacho steps out of his house, calm and collected, always unnervingly put together, “how nice of you to drop by.”

As usual, he sounds vaguely humoured, motioning with his head for Miguel to follow him around the corner to the poolside. The house and its surroundings are very in line with what Miguel can see in Pacho, stylish and cohesive, enough to catch your eye but not glaringly abrasive. There was something oddly captivating about the man and his movements, Miguel doesn’t doubt for one moment he’s probably an avid dancer just from the fluidity of him.

“Could I offer you a drink?” He asks, eyeing Miguel from behind his bar, pouring a drink into his own glass from a strainer. “Or are you too _manly_ for a strawberry daquiri?”

Miguel lets out a small huff, amused. “I’m sure I can manage.”

“Hm,” Pacho puts a glass in front of him, sitting across from him with his own glass, clearly having already assumed and acted upon the answer Miguel gave before he’d even given it, “it’ll be our little secret.”

Miguel regards him, taking him in properly now that he has the chance to. He still watches Miguel with a slight suspicion, though primarily, he is amused and calm. Men like Don Neto, Rafa, they wear their emotions on their sleeve and do so proudly. Immeasurable anger, fury, confusion. But the man before him wears a very delicately crafted mask that seems impossible to crack, and it makes Miguel both concerned and envious.

“You’re starting to see the mounting pile of problems that comes with cocaine?” His voice is airy, gently bemused and not remotely biting. Yet his eyes are playful, as though he wishes to get a rise out of Miguel, for whatever reason. Perhaps he’s not the only one measuring the man across from him with curiosity and slight trepidation.

“It’s not the cocaine that’s the problem.” Miguel sips from the drink, startled by the sweetness of it, never having been one for cocktails, preferring a simpler drink.

“You like it?” Pacho raises an eyebrow, eyes flickering with laughter even if he remains silent. “Didn’t think you’d like sweet things.”

Miguel hums under his breath, staring up at the clouds through his sunglasses, letting the warmth of the sun seep over him as he takes off his suit jacket. More temperate than the weather in Guadalajara, not as humid and heavy. The breeze is light and gentle but enough to fan across his skin perfectly.

Pacho chuckles. “You’re having issues with your partners, is that it? Or competitors? I’m going to assume both.”

“You’d assume correctly.” Miguel feels an odd dynamic, for a brief moment. As though there’s a confidentiality element reminiscent of a therapist and patient, as if he’s trusting this man to keep their entire conversation private and also give him workable advice. He’s not entirely sure why.

“Well, perhaps you should do what you’ve been dying to do since you came into all of this power and money.” His tone is conversational, as though they were discussing the simplicities of life rather than the intricacies of running a narcotics cartel.

“That would be what, exactly?” Miguel sips his drink, revelling in the sweetness on the tip of his tongue and the coolness of the drink under the heat of the afternoon.

Pacho’s eyes narrow at him, like a cat, as he leans to put his empty glass on the table. “Be the boss.”

“Hadn’t thought of that.” Miguel says dryly. “Do they pay you for giving advice in Cali?”

Pacho laughs, a beautiful and melodic laugh, his eyes crinkled, and the corners of his lips upturned. “No, but they should.”

Miguel had a cousin once, a cousin who favoured the company of men over women. He’d been relatively discreet about it, though word travels fast in such closely-knit family communities, especially with the rampant Catholicism and ostracism of those who were different. Miguel can remember the white-hot feeling in his gut when his cousin came to his door, red-eyed and jittery, a boy of only nineteen, scared of the world. He didn’t understand it, he may not have held religion in the esteem he had many years ago, but he still struggled to fully understand it. He had told his cousin as much, under the Sinaloa sun, standing in his kitchen and speaking in rushed and quiet tones.

_“You don’t understand.” His cousin had said, shaking from the upset or the fear, Miguel still isn’t sure in retrospect. “How could you understand?”_

_“How did you let them find out?” Miguel can’t help the frustration. He can only help his cousin so much, if at all, now that so many people are aware of his inclinations._

_“Let them?” He sounds distraught, staring at Miguel with wild eyes. “Let them know? Let them know what, exactly? That I cannot love who they want me to love? That try as I might, and God knows I have, to look at a woman and feel something deep down inside of me, I can’t? Let them know that I’m aware I’ll be punished for what I feel by men and by God, in this life and the afterlife, for wanting someone the way everyone else does?”_

_Miguel resists the urge to lash out entirely, though lord knows, he’s wound up so tightly he’s about to snap._

_“People will always find weakness where they want to find weakness,” he’d told him, sighing, exasperated, “whether they agree with it or not.”_

_“Do you?” His cousins voice is startlingly unwavering now, much clearer._

_“Do I what?” Miguel asks, the coil of uncertainty wrapping around his neck until he feels like he’s choking._

_“Do you agree with it?” He asks, laughing humourlessly. “I doubt it.”_

_“It doesn’t matter what I do or don’t agree with, you’re family.” Miguel remembers the way his cousin’s eyes had softened, for a fleeting moment, they way he stared at Miguel as if he had been longing to hear those words. “I protect my family.”_

_It had worked, too, for a few months. Men who had disagreements had to filter them through Miguel, and most of the men in his neighbourhood knew he wasn’t averse to using manipulation or his fists in equal measure. They’d whisper about it, malicious words under their breath, too stupid to realise Miguel was listening to every word. His cousin was found dead in his bedroom three months after their conversation, after Miguel had offered his protection and his comfort in the only way he’d really known how._

_Nineteen years old, strewn across his bed beaten and bloody. They hadn’t even shot him, given him a small mercy of a quick death. They said he died from blunt force trauma, like Miguel couldn’t see the horrible red marks scarring his cousin’s arms and legs, almost every inch of his skin marked and ruined. He’d been so beautiful, a smile so radiant. His aunt didn’t even want to have a funeral and wouldn’t even consider laying his cousin to rest where the rest of his deceased family were._

_“He cannot rest in a Catholic graveyard.” She’d spat at Miguel, eyes full of fury rather than sorrow. “He is no son of mine.”_

_He’d made the arrangements himself instead, the sparse corner of the graveyard, yes, but still the graveyard. It was surrounded by an array of flowers, every colour under the sun. As though that diminished the image Miguel would forever have of his naïve cousin, eyes still wide with terror, sprawled across his bed, beaten to death for being in love._

“You look sad.” Pacho’s voice breaks him from his reverie, brown eyes practically burning gold under the sun.

“No.” Miguel replies, fingers delicately tracing the crucifix hanging from his neck. Pacho’s eyes track his movement, his eyes hardening for barely a fraction of a second before they neutralise again.

“Is it God that is concerning you?” He asks, sun shining on his exposed chest where his own crucifix lies, more modest and delicate than the one around Miguel’s neck that had belonged to his father.

Miguel pauses. “God hasn’t concerned me for a long time.”

“Is that so?” Pacho’s mouth twitches, as though he’s privy to a joke that Miguel isn’t. “How quaint.”

“Hardly.” Miguel stares into the distance, his mouth set in a hard line. “A lack of concern doesn’t mean a lack of presence or judgement.”

A small outtake of breath huffs from Pacho’s mouth. “Oh, quite.” His eyes look distant, as if he’s not entirely present in the moment. “Judgement is inevitable.”

“What makes you say that?” Miguel is curious, after all, about the man who says so much but reveals so little of himself, such little fragments that everyone around is left with a different result when they try to piece him together in their mind.

“Because, Miguel Ángel Félix Gallardo, I love men,” he says, eyes practically burning, though not in anger, “I fuck men, men have fucked me. I enjoy the company of men. I’ve had my heart broken by men, men have had their hearts broken by me. Judgement hangs over my very existence and lies hiding in every orifice. Every man who speaks to me does so with judgement. I’m very familiar with the concept.”

“That bothers you?” Miguel can’t help but ask a question he knows is painful, stupid and insensitive. He swears he can see his cousin for a moment, scared and alone.

“It did once.” Pacho smiles, finger running across the rim of his glass. “But it is my own judgement I fear more. You should remember that, Miguel Ángel. People will always judge that which you hold closest to your heart, that which you find impossible to deny. They will use it against you and beat you down with it until there’s only a shell of yourself left.”

“You don’t look like a shell to me.” Pacho laughs at his reply, a genuine and sincere one that has him looking away. “Besides, if I’m not quite sure what it is that they are judging me on, then I suppose ignorance is bliss.”

He stands when Pacho does, eyes glimmering at Miguel as though he’s more attuned to him than he was before, like he’s seeing more of him.

He leans to whisper in Miguel’s ear, his breath hot, Miguel suddenly aware of the sizeable difference between the two of them. For Pacho’s more athletic build, toned muscle and taller stature, Miguel is compact and lithe, standing at below average height. He has to look up at Pacho, stare him dead in his intrigued eyes.

“Control,” he whispers, taking off Miguel’s sunglasses and staring at him hard enough to burn holes through the back of his head, “you crave, live and breathe control.”

He hadn’t been wrong about that.

 

* * *

 

 

Women had always been aesthetically pleasing to Miguel. From their soft curves, smooth skin and delicate features, he’d always found them to be attractive to look at. From women with taller statures, regardless of his own meagre height, with long billowing hair and willowy limbs, to the shorter curvier women that made his eyes dance to follow their shape. Men had never been worth looking at in that way, hardly worth his time, even to platonically note their attractiveness. He’s first hit with the startling realisation that Pacho Herrera is his type when he finds him around the corner from a party Gilberto had held, excessive and lavish.

The noise from the speakers is faint from here, the sky pitch black and full of stars, the grass only faintly illuminated so far out from the house by small lanterns that flicker. Pacho doesn’t even turn to see who it is before greeting him.

“Miguel Ángel,” he says, with a particular emphasis that nobody else every quite manages, “what brings you so far away from the party?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing.” Miguel keeps his hands in his pockets, thankful he’d discarded his suit jacket earlier to appreciate the slightly cooler breeze in the air.

Pacho looks effortless as usual, plain trousers and a black and red silk shirt, open far enough that he can see his necklace glimmering under the lights from the lanterns. His eyes are unreadable, a different kind of intensity that is less vague.

“I was reminded of something.” He says, his voice smooth and soft. “Another time.”

Miguel hands him a drink, a rich whiskey with a small taste of cinnamon. Somehow it had reminded him of Pacho, for whatever reason. “Anything in particular?”

“Men who had wished I wouldn’t succeed.” He replies offhandedly, sipping at the whiskey and sighing softly, as though it brought him comfort. “Men who made poor choices that they will eventually regret.”

“Eventually?” Miguel chuckles, staring up at the sky. “You don’t seem like the type to enjoy waiting.”

“No, Miguel Ángel, I do not enjoy being made to wait.” His voice is practically a purr, and it takes an alarming few seconds for Miguel to realise it is a similar intonation to the one that women use around him, though far more refined and deeper.

Miguel regards him, curious and apprehensive. “Then why wait at all?”

“Because sometimes we have to play the long game for the things which we want the most.” He’d said, finger tracing over Miguel’s necklace with a featherlight touch, a small shiver up the back of Miguel’s neck making his hairs stand on end. Pacho smiles delicately, deliberately, his fingers running around the back of Miguel’s neck to curl in his hair gently. “Wouldn’t you say?”

Miguel’s breath hitches, uncertainty thick in the air, fear of the unknown. “I suppose so.”

He can remember that night in pieces, when his brain is coherent enough to recall the memories. The low lights of the room, the soft sheets of the bed. The way he’d been pushed until the back of his knees hit the side of the bed, falling onto his back as though he wasn’t usually considered the dominant partner. Pacho’s weight on him, hungry searing stares and touches that left Miguel breathless, confused and in complete ecstasy. It was as if Pacho knew his body better than he knew it himself, though he’d always been one for efficiency and not losing himself to the moment. Not losing control.

The entire time, Pacho’s eyes stay on Miguel’s, focused so sincerely that Miguel feels an odd mix of embarrassment, giddiness and insane curiosity. Pacho seems to humour his curiosity, letting Miguel weave his fingers through his soft hair, touch tentatively as he slides his hand under Pacho’s silk shirt, revelling in the contented sigh he gets in return. There isn’t a rush the way there usually is in Miguel’s life, no frantic movement towards a convenient and desired end. There is only Pacho Herrera, splayed beneath him like he belongs there, relaxed and blissful as he guides Miguel’s hands and mouth. He may be the most attentive partner Miguel has ever shared a bed with.

He has the marks of the previous night littered on his body, a thinly bruised neck, bite marks near his hips, on his thighs. Reminders that he can lose control, willingly and desperately, which both scares and excites him. When movement catches the corner of his eye, he watches Pacho stretch languidly, making a small sound of pleasure as he does, bruises visible on his hips as the covers slide further down until all Miguel can see is beautifully tanned skin and toned muscle.

He makes Miguel need so fiercely, so desperately, that he thinks he might explode. But he knows that already.

 

* * *

 

 

“Leaving so soon?”

The voice carries across the field and gravel, so playful and melodic. Miguel smiles to himself for a moment before turning around.

“You do know I have a business to run.” His voice is thick with sarcasm, fingers closed around a lit cigarette as he brings it up to his lips to inhale deeply. Pacho’s eyes follow the moment, remaining on his lips. Perhaps it’s the heat from the cigarette, it’s plausible; perhaps Pacho Herrera has him where he’s always intended to, wrapped around his jewellery adorned finger.

“Perhaps you ought to consider the possibility that it isn’t only you attempting to run your business.” His voice is solemn, startlingly so, no smirk or smile. A warning.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Miguel replies, discarding the cigarette and pondering, his mind racing a mile a minute to cover all of the potential ground from such a weighted statement. “Thank you.”

“For what, Miguel Ángel?” Pacho is in front of him again, hands moving up to grasp onto the lapels of his suit jacket, Miguel still very aware of the bruising around his body, a thought that grounds him and leaves him longing. “For satisfying you?”

He looks smug, but still as handsome as ever. “I’ll never be satisfied.”

“No,” Pacho smiles fondly, “I hope you never are.”

Before he gets into his car, he’s gifted with a lazy kiss, Pacho’s fingers in his hair like they belonged there. His arms fit around Pacho’s waist perfectly, his neck angling up just right to kiss him back with equal fervour, enjoying the simplicity of it all, the lack of spoken commitment. Pacho pulls away with a smile, brushing his thumb over Miguel’s lips with a fond look.

“Be careful, Miguel Ángel.”

 

* * *

 

 

With a gun pressed against the back of his head, on his knees in a shithole cabin he’d paid half a million for, he hears Pacho Herrera’s voice.

_“People will always judge that which you hold closest to your heart, that which you find impossible to deny. They will use it against you and beat you down with it until there’s only a shell of yourself left.”_

They thought that they could pull the rug out from under him, to tear his operation to pieces. He didn’t doubt that his business partners were probably scrambling to fight over the crumbs, no doubt saying some bullshit words about Miguel Ángel Félix Gallardo’s great contribution to their empire and how someone else had to carry the torch for him. No matter. They’d all pay for their transgressions one way or another.

_“Perhaps you ought to consider the possibility that it isn’t only you attempting to run your business.”_

He’s already decided the moment he gets back from all of this, he’s going to travel to Cali and land in whatever obnoxious villa Pacho is staying in to thank him. He’ll probably be expecting him, waiting for him. The thought doesn’t surprise him. He grasps his crucifix in his hand before standing, turning to face his accuser.

They were all going to pay the price of his judgement.


	2. Chapter 2

There had been many aspects of his life, as of late, that were new to him. It took time to get used to so many readjustments and changes, and the narcotics business brought a multitude of changes. He’d barely escaped unscathed from the last incident, having almost had his head blown off in Sinaloa, on his knees and still half sick from stress. He can still remember how tense his stomach had been for days prior, the blood he’d cough up and the stabbing ache in his gut. He’d become rather attuned to keeping it all to himself by now, with Rafa and Don Neto out of the picture, he had nobody left to trust.

Not that he was in the habit of trusting anyone, much, anyway.

“So,” Pacho’s voice is airy, melodic as usual, “did you enjoy your little vacation?”

Miguel snorts, shaking his head, albeit fondly. “Vacation?”

“It’s not as if you were up to much work, is it?” His tone is teasing, his eyes flickering in the way they always seemed to when he was in this kind of mood: conniving, playful. “I suppose I should be careful what I say to a man who has his own personal army.”

“I suppose you should.” Miguel watches him, aware of the similarities and differences they share, now suddenly so apparent. There was nothing quite like the near experience of losing everything to bring clarity.

Pacho sits beside him, all elegance and sophistication, eyes glimmering. “So, Miguel Ángel, what comes next?”

“Whatever I want, I suppose.” Miguel is interrupted by Pacho’s laugh, a laugh that has him looking away slightly with a fond expression. It’s oddly endearing.

His hand rests on Miguel’s thigh, casual and comfortable. “And what might that be?”

Miguel considers, briefly. He’s certainly more predisposed to dangerous and risky behaviour than he was a few years ago, that much is clear. He’s also more aware of his desires, something he always keeps so close to his chest and kept under lock and key. In that, they are rather kindred spirits. There doesn’t seem to be an air of expectation, or weighted promises. Pacho blinks slowly, eyelashes startlingly long, mouth curving up at the extended silence.

“I can think of a few things.” His hand slides delicately under Pacho’s silk shirt, lingering near his collarbones and admiring the shift of his muscles as they react to his touch. Pacho, without a hint of shame or embarrassment, sighs softly at the touch as though he’s been waiting for it.

He retracts his touch, skimming his fingers over the soft facial hair of Pacho’s jaw before resting his hand back by his side. He’s not entirely sure if it’s the fact that Pacho always seems to get exactly what he wants without having to ask, or if it’s because he wants to see how he’ll react to this, but either way, it’s new territory.

Without having to look, he can feel Pacho’s stare on him, and perhaps it makes him feel a little bit smug to have gotten some kind of a reaction out of him.

Pacho hums, a small smile curving the sides of his mouth. Maybe it makes Miguel a little nervous. “A dangerous game.”

“Why?” Miguel runs his fingers through Pacho’s silky hair, eyes twinkling when he leans his head back into the touch, contented sigh escaping his mouth. “Afraid you might lose?”

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a haziness to the mornings, like there’s a blurred edge to his vision, the sunlight streaming through the window coating everything in a golden light. He’s comfortably warm, content and aching. He allows himself a moment to stretch languidly, letting a small noise of pleasure out when his back cracks. Dark eyes follow him, nearly black even under the morning sun. The gaze is quizzical, curious and searching, though somehow still with an air of intimidation.

Miguel Ángel Félix Gallardo was a bit of an enigma.

Then again, Pacho knows from experience that people find him difficult to read, always aloof and deliberately misleading. But with Miguel there’s a certain sense of pride he carries with him, present in the way a man smaller than he has any right to be can hold his head up highly in a room full of narcos who wish him dead. He wasn’t the traditional cartel leader type; not too brash or abrasive, loud or personable, temperamental. He had a quiet sense of intimidation about him that was less obvious, the type of man who would look beyond the superficial and feel security not with a gun but with knowledge.

“Good morning.” Pacho watches Miguel closely, taking his opportunity to see him in such a vulnerable state of undone. “Did you have a nice sleep?”

He huffs, swatting away Pacho’s hand as it creeps up his side, tickling him. “It was terrible, actually.”

“ _Oh?_ ” Pacho leans over him, his size alone practically covering the entirety of Miguel’s upper body with no effort, revelling in the way he looked back at him with blazing eyes. “Why is that?”

“You’re a clingy sleeper.” Miguel snorts, as though the statement amuses him, eyes softening when Pacho lies half-across him, chin resting on his chest to be able to look at Miguel properly.

His face practically transforms, soft edges and crinkled eyes, a rather modest and boyish smile on his face. “And you’re a scrawny and bony pillow, Miguel Ángel.”

Pacho wouldn’t be able to tell anyone how this had necessarily started, still unsure himself. His mistrust of Miguel had naturally only spurred him on to learn more about him, to talk to him. Naturally that meant that he became intrigued, dangerously so, being swallowed into the unconventional charm of a man who didn’t really care about the opinions of others unless it were in his interest to do so.

Miguel’s fingers comb through Pacho’s hair, Pacho’s head sliding so his cheek is now resting flat against Miguel’s chest instead, practically purring at the personal attention. His fingers trace over Miguel’s crucifix necklace, twirling it in his fingers.

“I have an event coming up.” He says, fingers still running methodically through Pacho’s hair. “I’d like for you to be there.”

Pacho’s eyes flicker upward to look at Miguel, narrowing for a fraction of a second. “Hm. Why me?”

“For your good looks.” He says dryly, rolling his eyes and pulling on Pacho’s hair gently. “Because my business is still in a delicate position and having someone from Cali at the event shows that I’m not compromised.”

Pacho’s smile is devious as he moves with alarming speed, straddling Miguel’s hips effortlessly as he lands on top of him, fingers splayed out on his chest. “I disagree, Miguel Ángel. I think you’re _very_ compromised.”

The satisfaction on Pacho’s face is evident when he receives a strangled moan in return, Miguel’s eyes darkening. Pacho stretches, giving him a small kiss, affectionate and delicate. “I’ll consider it.”

 

* * *

 

 

He wasn’t sure what to expect when Pacho turned up to the event, but he knows for a fact his expectations are always shattered with the man. Stepping out of a sleek sportscar, he’s annoyingly sophisticated in a black and gold silk shirt, his gold jewellery catching the lights of the hotel perfectly. Maybe Miguel’s eyes linger on the expanse of his neck and chest, exposed because of Pacho’s insistence at leaving half of his buttons undone. His mouth becomes slightly dry just from watching him walk into the room, already knowing just how fluidly and smoothly the man can move. The strength of his arms, his thighs, pure muscle.

 _It’s like you want to send yourself to an early grave,_ he thinks.

When they shake hands, both have vaguely amused expressions, though only to each other. It’s not as if anybody else was quite at that level of unnerving familiarity with the two of them. The small talk is pleasant enough, Pacho always managing to be charming without trying. It’s only when Isabella’s lithe arms wrap around Miguel’s arm the mood changes. Pacho’s eyes narrow, his jaw tightening. It’s probably one of the sincerest expressions Miguel has ever seen on his face, rawer than anything Pacho would ever usually let slip through.

His eyes slide over Isabella, as if he’s sizing her up, and he smiles in a way that reminds Miguel of a shark.

Isabella, whether oblivious or fully aware of the reaction she’s receiving, offers her hand to Pacho. “I don’t believe we’ve met outside of business.”

“No,” Pacho replies, kissing her hand and chuckling, “I think I would remember.”

She seems moderately taken aback by this, clearly attempting to put together the well-known inclinations Pacho had that so many people gossiped about with the man who seemed to be complimenting her.

“Oh?” She tilts her head, her hair cascading over her shoulder, red lips curved upward.

“You reached out to Cali when Miguel Ángel was incapacitated, no?” His eyes narrow, the smile sliding from his face so swiftly that Miguel feels backed into a corner, even though he’s not the subject of such a critical glare, “or have you forgotten?”

“I don’t know what you’re implying.” Her voice is harder, even with an attempt to disguise it as conversational. Miguel never did speak with her after the incident, after dismissing her from a meeting she’d called under the assumption he’d never come back. He’d felt there wasn’t much to say on the matter that wasn’t already clear, but apparently Pacho thought differently.

“I’m not _implying_ anything, Isabella,” Pacho’s gaze is cold, Miguel suddenly aware of just how much taller he is, how much more of an intimidating presence he has when the bemusement is no longer on his face, “everybody knows you will stop at nothing to get what you want. Don’t think I’m not aware of the things you _think_ you’re saying behind my back.”

There’s stunned silence when Pacho lights a cigarette, inhaling deeply. “They don’t call our security the Cali KGB for nothing.”

Isabella’s eyes flicker to Miguel, the outrage evident in the way her chin is pointed upwards, on the offensive. When he makes no move to interject, she unclasps her arm from his with a huff, snatching her bag from the nearby table and walking away without looking back.

“It’s nice to see you making friends.” Miguel stares, motioning with his head towards the door, walking out into the pitch-black poolside, sitting on one of the deckchairs to light a cigarette.

Pacho sits across from him, his eyes distant and eyebrows furrowed. “You should’ve discarded her the moment she turned her back on you.”

Miguel’s eyes lazily flicker to Pacho, an amused expression. “I’m not entirely sure that’s the reason you were being so hostile.”

“Well, Miguel Ángel,” he turns his head and gives Miguel his undivided, intense attention, “perhaps you should consider that if she thinks she can speak about me behind my back, then she may speak about you behind yours.”

“Gossip has never been a concern of mine.” Miguel replies mildly, dragging from his cigarette and stretching. “I didn’t think it was a concern of yours, either.”

“Everyone knows who I am.” Pacho says simply, putting out his cigarette in the ashtray. “I’m not sure you even know who you are.”

Miguel snorts. “What, because of the fact I spend my time with you?” He shakes his head. “This is a rather elaborate excuse for you to come up with rather than admit you were jealous.”

Before he can comprehend the movement or acknowledge it, Pacho is kneeling between his legs, still coming up at eye-level with Miguel who is seated. It should be somewhat demeaning, yet the way Pacho stares is stirring an unfathomable amount of need in his stomach, making him yearn to feel Pacho’s skin under his nails, his mouth on his neck. Pacho kisses him like he’s been starved, fingers curled in his hair, pulling him as close as is humanly possible. It’s like all Miguel can breathe is Pacho, moulding into him perfectly and losing himself to the moment.

Pacho pulls away, dishevelled and handsome. “I have nothing to be jealous of.”

He stands, fixing his haphazard shirt and staring at Miguel, amused. “Jealousy implies comparison. There is nobody in your life that can compare, or will ever compare, to me.”

_I suppose he’s right._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this crack pairing is too good to pass up, so I thought I'd continue aimlessly.  
> Comments always appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> Crack pairing? Yes. But I love them both so much that I had to write something about them, so I hope you enjoy!  
> Feedback is always appreciated.


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